


Celebrin

by Leeheon



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family Reunions, Gap Filler, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10638222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leeheon/pseuds/Leeheon
Summary: Life of Celebrimbor, revolving around his two other 'silver' cousins... Or not.





	

He sat upon the pedestal of Yavanna's statue, and tried to ignore the noise all around him. He failed. The screams assailed him from everywhere, the notes reaching higher than any elven voice could - no, _should_ \- go, causing the hair on his bare arms to prickle; and yet still worse were the moans, low and desolate, that made him pray _please, please just let them die._ But of course no one quite heeded his prayer, and he was left staring mindlessly at nothing, a blood-soaked cloth held loosely to the right side of his face by a shaking hand. His other hand hung limply on his thigh, recently blistered from wielding a sword, not a hammer. The fingers were red and swollen, but at least he had not lost any of them. He bit his lips to stifle his own moan, and wished he could escape, could be anyplace but here.

Amidst the throng of blankets and bandages came a young elf-woman, lugging a large bucket behind her, and almost instinctively he stepped down from his seat, grasping the handle with his left hand. The woman looked up in alarm, then in displeasure as she took in his appearance; singed hair, ragged clothes, a claw mark narrowly missing his eye and all. But before she could order him to rest, a desperate cry rose a few yards away, and she let go, pointing to a fountain before hastening to the crier's aid.

He set his jaw and started picking his way through the impromptu infirmary. Under the summer sun the heat was relentless, boring down on the nape of his neck, and briefly he wondered why the sun could not have shone like this during those days of battle. The bucket was indeed too heavy to be carried all the way by a single hand, and so he dropped the cloth he'd been pressing against his wound and noted how it barely stood out on the littered ground. He took much care to avoid tripping over anyone's limbs, attached or otherwise, while his thoughts haplessly raced toward the trail of dead bodies leading from the Anfauglith to this white city. At least those lying here were likely to live through; they had been the ones strong enough to walk. Ah, but the sound! He had grown accustomed to the stench of blood and rot, on the long march that ended, for him, only a few hours ago, but the wave of screams that had hit him as he struggled into this courtyard had been something entirely different. He had soon learned the healers had quickly run out of anesthetics - along with the fact that his injury, being as minor as it is, would go untended for a while - and still the remnants of the western troops were limping into the yard.

When he finally reached the fountain, he was drenched in sweat and blood. He splashed some water on his face, cringed as the claw mark stung, but it bled no more and for that he was glad. He dumped the bucket into the basin as well. The fountain was shallow; apparently, the statue of Yavanna had been to be the main attraction of this particular courtyard, and the fountain there just for practical purposes. He pondered the problem for a moment, his vision and mind blurred alike from days gone by without rest, and then pushed the bucket below the outstretched hands of a granite maiden. Satisfied with the steady flow of water slowly filling the bucket, he stood up straighter with his hands on his hips.

And froze.

At the end of his gaze lay a set of eyes, shining with the light of the Trees. Golden lashes fluttered like leaves in autumn, clearly visible despite being several yards away, and even as he watched they curved upward gracefully in surprise and in recognition. He would have turned and fled, would have cursed in words his elder uncles would have whipped him for, would have dove in the the bucket, even, to escape those eyes, had he only been able to move.

"Tyelperinquar," the princess of Gondolin breathed, and Celebrimbor's heart sank to his toes.

 

Truly, Celebrimbor had not meant to come to the hidden city. He certainly had not meant to confront Turgon's daughter - _Elenwe's daughter_ \- with blood covering half his face and the sleeves of his shirt discarded somewhere in the plethora of wounded bodies. All he had meant to do, in fact, was to get out of Nargothrond. Despite his repudiation of his father, there were still those who treated him as a kinslayer and traitor, and, well, his uncle's Union had provided exactly the commotion that a lone elf might use to slip away unnoticed. Sure, he had felt a measure of guilt at leaving his father's people in Nargothrond, but they would not have appreciated running off with a son of Curufin. At first Celebrimbor had intended to head to Himring, but realized he did not like the notion of seeing his father again one bit, or uncle Celegorm for that matter. Besides, Hithlum was so much closer. It ought to have crossed his mind that he, having sworn no oath, could simply avoid the fighting altogether and go southward; and yet the only thoughts he had while riding hard to Hithlum had been thoughts of whether there would be enough time to forge a new pair of swords, for he had left his old ones in his chambers in Nargothrond as a sign that his departure had not been in ill will.

There had not been time, but twin swords were not an uncommon choice of weapon in Noldorin armies, and someone managed to find a newcomer a used pair. Celebrimbor had tried his best to keep them in his hands. Still, somehow in the last day of the battle, he found himself fighting tooth and nail against a beast that vaguely resembled Huan. Then a Gondolindrim soldier had come to his aid, thankfully unaware of his parentage, and herded him to Turgon's forces. Celebrimbor, too tired to care, had meekly trailed after the new High King. There had been no other choice, anyways, with those two scary lords guarding the flanks. Along with the battered soldiers of Fingolfin's sons, Celebrimbor Crufinian had trudged into the City of Seven Names - or eight, or nine, depending on the names one opted to include. Now, though, he regretted his actions rather sorely.

As Idril Celebrindal strode towards him, disbelief and joy clearly warring on her fair face, Celebrimbor scrambled his brain in a mad attempt to find the right words. It occurred that the bucket was full. Frustrated, he gave up and looked pleadingly at his cousin.

"Tyelperinquar," she said again, her voice so quiet that the gurgle of the fountain almost drowned her words. She lightly touched his shoulder, then his bloodied cheek, and Celebrimbor regained the control of his tongue at last.

"Itarille," he whispered, and hurriedly added; "Please, cousin, none may know that I am here," the fear from the past few days spilling into his words.

Celebrimbor marvelled at the speed in which Idril's expression changed from that of gladness to caution. The tension in his chest eased, and he noticed that Idril carried an armful of bandages. He glanced back at his bucket and decided he'd better finish what he had begun, before something bad - he did not know what exactly - happened. But Ulmo, the bucket was heavy. He was panting slightly by the time he set it down next to Yavanna, the young healer nowhere to be found. Idril had not moved from the fountain, resembling very much the granite maiden. Seeing no other way, he walked back to her and parted his lips, hoping the fountain would rend his words incomprehensible to any but the princess.

"Itarille, I beg you, if your father learns that I have dared to trespass in his realm..."

"He would welcome you as his nephew," Idril replied calmly, the language of their youth from Tirion bringing a slight jolt of shock through Celebrimbor. "Tyelperinquar, you need not fear him; of that I give you my assurance."

Celebrimbor grimaced. "Look me in my eyes and tell me he has forgotten about his wife, then. Look me in my eyes and tell me he has not been informed by whose hands his cousin and dearest friend was usurped and sent as a beggar to his death."

Idril's expression shifted once more, guarded and defensive. Celebrimbor worried that he had crossed a line, and wished futilely that he had not let go of that cloth; perhaps then Idril might not have spotted him. But he pressed on, the tales he had asked of that Gondolindrim soldier bubbling to the surface, no longer conscious of forming the words but hearing them as if they were spoken by another in a far-off place.

"But you repudiated your father..." Idril said, albeit uncertainly, only to be interrupted; "Tell me he has not slain the last man who killed his sister. Tell me, Itarille!" Celebrimbor hissed, then lowered his voice, and the terror that had numbed his mind for so long sipped into each syllable he spoke, layering them as thick as Morgoth's fogs; "Cousin, I don't want to be the second smith to be thrown from the Caragdur."

And he saw Idril's resolve harden, and secretly let out a shuddering sigh of relief, even while a small voice inside his head murmured that he was in truth Curufin's son. Disturbed, he kept his mouth shut as Idril drew him by hand to somewhere away from the moans.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I usually write in Korean.  
> This is what happens to Korean high school students cramming for the mid-terms.  
> Everything, I swear, EVERYTHING is infinitely easier to do than studying.
> 
> Anyways, originally this story had been intended to be just what the summary says, the life of Celebrimbor and his relationships with Idril and Celebrian, but then it had also been intended to be written in Korean. But as brains are not cellphones, you can't just change the settings to write in a certain language, and sometimes you get stuck. So I gave it up and decided to write a one-shot instead. I hope it didn't seem too weird.
> 
> Thank you!


End file.
